


shoot my heart with your tattoo gun

by cryystal_m00n



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Tension, boner at first sight, ive been told dream is a pussy here, littles tiniest bit of d/s undertones for some good ol' spice, tattooed!george
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28938981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryystal_m00n/pseuds/cryystal_m00n
Summary: Dream isn’t scared. His knees may be weak and his hands may be shaking as he pushes the door open, but he’snotscared.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 180





	shoot my heart with your tattoo gun

**Author's Note:**

> tattoos inspired by @lllllllssssssh's art on twt 
> 
> this is literally just self-indulgent i have no excuse for it lol. just vibes and gogy with tattoos uwu

Dream isn’t scared. His knees may be weak and his hands may be shaking as he pushes the door open, but he’s _not_ scared. He’s anything but that! So why is his heart beat picking up as he finally registers the buzzing sound coming from somewhere in the shop? 

He wants this, he’s been thinking about getting a tattoo for years now, but the idea of needles going in and out of his skin _terrifies_ him. He’s close to hyperventilating and he’s not even sure he can get one done today. Trying to distract himself, Dream takes in his surroundings. The tattoo parlour is surprisingly well luminated, unlike any he’s seen in TV shows. There aren’t any anarchy symbols, no skulls carved in the walls, no neon signs to attract people; it’s just an open room, decorated with mismatched plants and knick-knacks, sketchbook pages torn and put on the walls. It feels homey, comforting in a way that makes Dream want to spend as much time here as possible. His eyes stop momentarily on the cat lazing in one of the waiting chairs, but he quickly averts them. 

The music also helps, and without realizing, Dream starts humming along with Ashnikko’s voice while inspecting the closest array of sketches.

“Hello, welcome to Sleepy Ink! How can I help you?” 

Dream turns around, nearly knocking over a stack of books someone placed _very conveniently_ away from their rightful place on the small bookshelf. He’s faced with a man behind the low counter he hasn’t even noticed, too busy rethinking his entire life choices. He stares at his soft hair and softer smile, his H&M yellow cashmere sweater and his thin framed glasses and Dream can only think _wow, he doesn’t fit the whole vibe of a tattoo parlour_. 

“Are you here for an appointment or did you just randomly decide you want a tatt and walk into the first shop? Because either way, I’m here to help you, bud!” his voice has a posh accent, British or something, and Dream can’t take him seriously when he sounds like someone who would talk hours and hours about fucking _tea_. “Can’t talk? That’s ok, Ranboo knows sign language, I can bring him here to help--” 

“No! I’m… I want a tattoo,” he ends up saying, a panicked look on his face. 

The man laughs, reaching for a pen. He doesn’t end up using it, but just twirls it around in his hand while he clicks and types quickly on his computer. “Figured you’d come in asking for a beer, mate,” he chuckles, but Dream doesn’t share his humor right now. Maybe when he isn’t pissing his pants because _holy mother of Jesus_ , he’s actually gonna get one. 

“You, my friend,” the man says, pointing the pen in Dream’s direction, “are in luck. Georgie-poo is free now. You can check his style here,” a small sketchbook gets pushed over the counter, “and if you like it I’ll call him in the front for you to discuss. I think he’s taking a nap now…” 

“Er, thanks…”

“Wilbur!” 

“Right, Wilbur… But you see I’m not looking for a particular style… I want something simple…”

Wilbur nods to himself. “I have to let you know, line art fades _so_ fast, man, it’s kind of a waste, but we do have Fundy, who works in that style--”

“I just want a smiley face.”

“Oh-- Okay, I see… Well if that’s all you want _and_ you are sure, I will just go ahead and get George here. You can still look through that in case you want something else, but no pressure to change your idea!” Wilbur stands up, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. He’s tall… taller than Dream is… Dream wants to simultaneously fight him and simp for the man. He’s always had a thing for people taller than him. 

Not knowing how else to react, the blond nods silently. 

And now, here he is, alone in a tattoo parlour, while someone is in one of the rooms connected to the main room, getting their skin stabbed god knows how many times. He’s going to be the one getting stabbed soon… Holy shit, this is still happening. Dream feels like passing out-- Scratch that, he’s going to pass out soon. The coffee he had before coming here isn’t enough substance for his body to deal with all this adrenaline. He should have eaten something. 

Suddenly, the cat is pushing its little hand in his leg and Dream can’t do anything but gasp and fall to his knees to pet the little thing. It’s smaller than Patches, so he assumes it’s still a kitten. He picks it up after it smells his hand and deems him worthy. The kitten --a boy, the short inspection tells Dream-- meows happily and snuggles into his chest, promptly falling back asleep. 

What the _fuck_ is Dream supposed to do now? He can’t get tattooed while there’s a cat on him! What if the fur gets pushed into his skin when whoever George is uses the tattoo gun on him? What if he can’t ever leave because of this cat… Oh, no, he’s bound to stay here, with a sleeping cat in his arms, for the rest of his life!

What a cruel destiny, but he is more than happy to die like this. 

That is until he hears steps coming from behind him. Dream chooses to ignore them, still keen on petting the kittycat’s head. Someone --not Wilbur, since there is a lack of yellow and a significantly shorter frame-- squats in front of him.

He throws the new person a quick look only to stop and stare. He’s beautiful, not in the way Wilbur is, all soft and cuddly-pretty boy, but more sharp angles and dark circles under his eyes-pretty boy. Dream could die again, next to two gorgeous men and one cat. Will he actually be able to make it out alive?

“I’m George,” the newcomer tells him. He has the same posh accent that Wilbur has, but Dream likes this one better. It’s smoother, despite his voice being scratchy in a way that makes Dream’s hair stand up on his arms. The blond takes George’s _everything_ in with a shaky breath. From his short brown hair, looking even softer than the nest on Wilbur’s head, to the slit in his right eyebrow, to the piercing adorning his lip, Dream spends seconds just staring at his face, caught in time. He knows George knows, but he can’t stop. There’s something about the man’s face that captivates Dream and he just can’t pinpoint _what_. 

So he stays quiet and looks, because George doesn’t say anything about the staring and Dream finds that his face is surprisingly calming to look at. It may be the deep shade of brown George’s eyes have, and how it seems bottomless without making the other look empty inside, or how his lips stretch into a wide smile when he finally catches Dream’s eyes. 

“Whenever you’re ready, we can go to the back and start,” he sounds a lot softer now, probably having picked up on Dream’s nervousness. “You’ll have to leave Cat here, though.”

The blond looks down at the sleeping kitten, suddenly feeling sorry for him. “Cat? His name is Cat?” 

“Tommy named him!” Wilbur says, as if he has any idea who _Tommy_ is. He bends down to pick up the cat from Dream’s arms. “He’s not very good with names. It was between Cat and Dog.”

“How…” Dream shakes his head. He doesn’t have enough working braincells to try and process that. George stands up and begins to walk ahead, going straight through one of the open doors. Dream, with utter horror, realizes the artist is a lot shorter than him. Did he just switch sides on his men type chart? Is he finally leaving the tall men who could bench press him behind to get the hots for a slightly buff twink -- did he fit the twunk criteria?-- with arm sleeves? 

Dream finally stands up. His knees hurt and there’s cat fur all over his hoodie now, but he doesn’t care one bit about that. What he cares about right now is that Wilbur is giving him a _knowing_ glance as if they’ve been buds their whole life and he knows Dream is about to pop a boner in front of the guy who will tattoo him. With an annoyed huff, he flips the man off and hurries after George. 

The artist is already setting up his station, wrapping a bench up in plastic wrap after having disinfected it. 

“Wilbur said you want a smiley face, right?” He turns to see Dream’s reaction, his eyes locked on the blond’s face. There’s a dusting of pink on George’s cheeks, but Dream doesn’t pay any mind to it. “Just black, I’d assume? Or would you like it… yellow? Like those emojis? Because I have to let you know I’m colorblind, so if you want color I’m not the one for you, darling.” 

The pet name almost makes Dream’s brain short circuit, but he pulls himself together fast enough to not let it show. “No! I just want a simple smiley. You know, two dots and a parenthesis? Honestly, I feel bad for making you get all these,” he gestures towards the table, where George is now settling his gun down, “out. It’s not even that complex, it’s kinda stupid either way… Maybe I should just not get it.” 

George frowns at him. “It’s not a stupid tattoo. If it means something to you, then it’s not dumb,” he says it with such vigour, the serious tone never leaving his voice, that Dream can’t help but feel comforted by those words. “See this?” the artist pushes his sleeve up until his arm is on display. He points to a small _404_ inked right above a bigger piece. “It’s small right? And quite dumb looking, _right_? But it means something to me so that basically cancels the other two things out.” He gives Dream a bright smile, one that makes his knees weak. 

“Good, now you fill these forms out and I’ll finish getting stuff ready.” Dream finds himself getting at least five pieces of paper thrusted in his hands, along with a pink gel pen. “Sorry, we kinda just use whatever the kids leave behind.” 

_Kids_? 

Before he can ask George what that means, the artist goes back to looking for more strange bottles, so Dream settles on a chair and goes through the forms quickly. They’re standard, just asking about allergies and for him to give consent over whatever George will do to him with the tattoo gun. 

Once he’s done and the papers are left behind on the chair, Dream walks over to where George is doodling on a piece of paper. It’s filled with smiley faces, all in various sizes and levels of happiness. They’re simple, that’s for sure, but Dream can still see the talent oozing out of George’s fingertips with each soft stroke of the pencil. 

“Do you like them? Which one fits your idea better? Do you wanna do it yourself?” 

Dream shakes his head and points to the one that caught his eye first. It’s on the smaller size with a longer mouth and smaller eyes. It’s exactly what he wants. George claps, already excited, as his face breaks into a dopey grin. It’s hard to believe that not even fifteen minutes ago he looked close to falling asleep or that his brows were stuck in a frown. Now he looks… younger, more alive. It’s cute. 

“Where do you want it?” 

The blond’s face goes red and he _prays_ that George’s colorblindness stops him from noticing that. “On… on my hip, please. The left one.”

“Sure. But first, please eat this,” he says, throwing a granola bar at Dream. “You look like you’re close to passing out and I’d rather _not_ have that happen. I don’t think I can get you out of the chair if you do faint.”

The implication is subtle, but it’s definitely there. Something in Dream’s monkey brain activates and all he can think about is the height difference between them and how much smaller George’s hand looks next to his when he places the stencil on the freshly shaved skin. _Fuck_ , he has to think of Sapnap’s grandma to stop himself from fucking this up. 

“You okay… What even is your name you forgot to introduce yourself,” George chuckles. 

“Dream,” he chokes out, his voice breaking when he sees the brunet pick up the tattoo gun. “It’s Dream.”

“Dream, alright. Well, Dream, if you’re not ready yet, we can wait some more. Would you like some water, Dream? I’d offer to hold your hand but I kinda need them both... Dream?” he _has_ to be saying that just because the blond gets redder and redder with each time George says his name. 

“I’m okay… you can start, I will try to stay still.” 

“There’s a good boy!” George laughs, patting the blond’s thigh gently. Dream promptly ignores his own racing heartbeat. “Okay, you can tell me to stop anytime you want, don’t try to seem tough in front of me.”

Dream nods and closes his eyes. He takes in a deep breath as George starts up the machine and then he blacks out. In his adrenaline rush, he has no idea what happens around him. The music in the studio is muffled and all he can focus on is the way George continuosly tells him he’s doing great. 

He thinks he faints at least five times, but then, the machine stops buzzing and George squirts water over his tattoo and wipes it clean with light touches and suddenly Dream is back to reality. Just like that. Not even ten minutes of torture. 

“How was it?” 

“Fine… Can you help me stand?” 

George rushes to his side, sneaking grabbing onto Dream’s arm to aid him. His head is fuzzy and he can feel his hip burning up, but when he looks down, there’s a thin layer of film clinging to his skin and there’s red all around it, but he has a tattoo. An actual tattoo, black ink beaten into his skin and _wow_ he likes the contrast too much already. 

George doesn’t ask him anything as he hands Dream a bottle of water, to which the blond is more than grateful. 

He’s just gotten a tattoo from the hottest person he’s ever met and somehow Dream is still alive. 

“Thanks…” he manages to say, meeting George’s eyes at last. “How much--”

“Oh, no, don't worry about that. Just take me on a date and we’re fine.”

“Is that even legal?” Dream asks, looking around for any hidden camera that could be recording this to be used in court later. “I’d love to, but I really think I should pay for the tattoo, sir,” _too formal_ , “George…” _better_. 

George smirks. “How about this. You keep calling me that and we go on a nice date and then we see where we go from there. Sounds good, darling?” 

Unable to do anything else, Dream nods. 

“Good. Now let’s go over the _aftercare_ , alright?” 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/wilbyphobic)


End file.
